


And All Came Tumbling Down (Whumptober 2020 Day 4)

by Jadelyn



Series: Whumptober 2020 [4]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Buried Alive, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon Ships It, Earthquakes, Everybody Lives, First Kiss, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Good Parent Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Rescue, Whumptober 2020, no beta we die like nobody in this fic does
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:21:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27063331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadelyn/pseuds/Jadelyn
Summary: An earth elemental's death-throes cause an earthquake strong enough to level the inn where Jaskier and Ciri were waiting for Geralt’s return. Trapped beneath the rubble and running out of air, they just have to hope that Geralt can dig them out before it's too late.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Whumptober 2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1953790
Comments: 13
Kudos: 329





	And All Came Tumbling Down (Whumptober 2020 Day 4)

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: No 4. RUNNING OUT OF TIME  
> Caged | Buried Alive | Collapsed Building

When the shaking started, all Jaskier could think was _thank fuck our room is on the ground floor._

He threw himself out of bed and grabbed Ciri's arm as she stumbled blearily to her feet. "What…?" she mumbled, still half-asleep.

"Earthquake," Jaskier said. "Big one. We need to get outside, now."

They made it as far as the bar in the tavern attached to the inn before the rumbling of the quake was suddenly supplemented by the rumbling of distressed stone and the sharp cracking of wood. Jaskier shoved Ciri to the ground against the base of the bar, shouting for her to cover her head.

Thank all the gods, she did, pressing herself against the solid wood of the bar, curling in on herself and wrapping her arms around her head. Jaskier had just enough time to see that she had done as instructed as he followed her down, bracing himself on all fours over her to shield her with his own body as best he could.

And then the world came down on top of them.

* * *

Roach had been too skittish to ride, after the earthquake caused by the earth elemental in its death throes. Which was genuinely unfortunate, Geralt thought as he trudged along the road back into the village. Normally he didn't mind walking with Roach to give her a bit of a rest, but the fight had left him bruised and exhausted and he really could have used the reprieve of being able to ride back.

And damn that elemental, anyway, he thought savagely. He'd tried to convince it to decamp, or at least stop attacking the miners, but it had refused to listen, forcing him to fight and kill it. And it always felt like he had failed when that happened, even though he'd won the actual battle and defeated the creature.

So he was making his slow, painful, frustrated way back to the village in a shit mood, and the only thing that lifted his spirits was the thought of Ciri and Jaskier waiting at the inn for him to return.

He was only a couple of blocks away from the inn when he realized that the shouting he was hearing wasn't the usual noise of a village, but shouts of alarm and panicked instructions being relayed. He'd been tuning it out, but now that he was listening…

_My father was in there!_

_Careful - that bit looks unstable, you'll bring the rest of it down if you're not careful!_

Geralt rounded the corner and for a long moment couldn't make sense of what his eyes were seeing.

Where the inn had stood when he left, spilling light and warmth from its windows, was a misshapen bulk, dark and silent save for the scurrying figures clambering about it with torches and lanterns in hand. Masonry-dust billowed around it, catching the torchlight and looking like fog.

"What happened?" he demanded of the first person he encountered at the edge of the crowd, a young woman in a cloak over her nightgown.

"The quake," she said, sounding numb. "The inn…collapsed."

Geralt fought the urge to shake her. "Did anyone get out before it collapsed?"

"I…don't know."

Giving her up as useless, he pushed his way through to the front of the crowd, exercising only as much control over his strength as was necessary to avoid outright killing anyone. The innkeeper's wife stood in front of the rubble that had been her husband's business an hour ago, clutching her young son to her breast. "Who made it out before it collapsed?" he asked without preamble.

She turned her head and looked up at him. "A few. I don't know. I saw the, the wool merchant and his son around here somewhere. Anna, my daughter, she got out with Tom and I. But my husband…" Her eyes filled with tears. "He went back to try to make sure the guests got out. I told him not to, said it wasn't worth his life. He didn't listen. He never listens."

"My companions," Geralt said. There was a pleading note in his voice that he didn't like, but he couldn't seem to get rid of it. "The bard, and his daughter. Have you seen them? Did they get out?"

"I don't know. I haven't seen them." The woman's eyes drifted back to the rubble.

So Geralt repeated his question to others nearby, getting the same answer again and again until he could no longer deny the truth.

_Jaskier and Ciri had been in the inn when it collapsed._

Orienting himself against the layout he remembered of the inn, Geralt went to where their rooms would have been and began to dig.

* * *

The muffled sound of Ciri weeping was what dragged Jaskier back to consciousness.

"Ciri?" he whispered, or tried to. His throat felt raw and clogged with dust, and he had to try to clear it a little before he could speak. Doing that sent throbbing pain through his chest and back, and it took a minute before he could wrestle himself under control enough to try again. "Ciri?"

She'd fallen silent, listening to him cough, but he heard her breath hitch at the sound of his voice. "Jaskier," she said, sounding both terrified and relieved. "You're awake!"

"That I seem to be, yes," Jaskier said. "Are you hurt?"

There was a rustling sound, as though she were shaking her head, then she said, "Not really. My ankle hurts but not too badly. What about you?"

Jaskier was trying to figure that out, himself. Cracked ribs at the least, and possibly damage to the spine along with it. He essayed a careful attempt at moving his limbs, and discovered that he had gone from on all fours to lying on his side, sort of - wedged in a slightly sideways position anyway. His left arm was stretched out above his head and pinned under something; his left knee sent spears of agony up his leg when he tried to move it. His head throbbed when he moved it, and he could feel a sticky warmth trickling down the side of his face.

"Not too badly," he lied.

"Jaskier," Ciri whispered, "Wh-what do we do? What happens now?"

"We wait," he said with a confidence he didn't feel. "They'll dig us out soon."

"But what if they don't?" Ciri's voice trembled. "Will we die under here?"

"We won't die, darling. They'll get us out."

"But what if they don't?" she insisted, an edge of panic coming into her voice.

"They will. You're forgetting one very important thing, my dear girl."

"What?"

"Geralt is out there. He'll be coming back from his hunt any time now, and no matter what the villagers are or aren't doing he will come and dig us out himself."

"You promise?" Ciri sounded very young all of a sudden, and Jaskier's heart broke for her a little bit.

"I promise, Ciri. There's no power on the Continent that could stop Geralt from getting to you when you need him. Now, enough talking. Close your eyes, breathe slow and steady, and stay calm, and before you know it we'll be out of this."

"All right."

* * *

The only reason Geralt even noticed that the sun had risen was because it lit his efforts better. The inn wasn't the only building in the village that had collapsed, so the remaining able-bodied adults were spread out among them, desperately searching for survivors. There were a full dozen people missing, including Jaskier and Ciri. Riders had been sent to nearby villages to ask for healers and other help, but no one had returned yet.

The situation was further complicated by the fact that they had to be careful in shifting the rubble lest they destabilize something and cause further collapse, potentially further injuring or even killing survivors still alive under there.

It had been, by Geralt's best estimate, around six hours since the collapse. He had finally reached the remains of their room, only to find it empty. Jaskier's lute had somehow survived the falling debris, tucked safely under the table. Geralt had stared at it for a long moment, fighting a swell of some unnamed emotion, before slinging it across his back with his swords and continuing to search.

He was working his way carefully along the corridor, tracing the path they'd have taken to try to escape, when he found the first body. Some other guest of the inn, a young man who'd taken a chunk of stone outer wall to the side of his head and cracked his skull. Geralt carefully freed the body and carried him away from the ruins, laying him out in the street and borrowing a cloth from one of the women to cover the body with. No one needed to have to see that broken, misshapen skull.

Feeling sick to his stomach, the witcher returned to the ruin and began to dig again.

* * *

"Jaskier? Will you sing to me?"

"I can't, princess." For a slew of reasons including his own injuries and the dryness of his throat, but also - "We need to conserve air until Geralt finds us."

"Conserve air?"

"There's no fresh air coming in until some of the rubble gets moved off of us," Jaskier explained. "So we need to keep calm and breathe slow and careful, so that we don't waste it."

"What if it runs out?"

"Geralt will come for us before that happens."

She snorted. "How do you have so much confidence in that? Or are you just lying to make me feel better?"

Jaskier smiled faintly, even though she couldn't see it. "Because, darling, Geralt has been saving my life for twenty years now. The very day we met, we were captured by elves and nearly killed. He got us out of that, though. He's saved me from monsters and men and my own stupidity more times than I can remember. So, my dear, I have every confidence that he'll save us from this, too."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure. Now, no more talking. We need to conserve air, remember?"

"I remember."

* * *

The late morning sun beat unrelentingly down upon Geralt as he worked. Rescuers had found four survivors and two more bodies, helped by volunteers from neighboring villages. There were healers treating the wounded.

But there was still no sign of Jaskier or Ciri.

He'd torn his leather gloves to shreds hours ago, and his hands were bleeding, but he couldn't let himself slow, couldn't let himself stop.

Not until he found them.

* * *

"Jaskier!" Ciri's hand shook Jaskier's shoulder and he jolted awake, biting back a groan of pain as his ribs protested.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I hear voices! I think there are people searching!"

Forcing himself to focus and listen, Jaskier realized he could hear it too. "Call out to them," he said, and suited actions to words. Her higher voice twined around his as they shouted for help, hoping the searchers would hear them and come find them.

The sounds of digging came closer, closer - and were drowned out by the ominous rumbling of debris shifting and settling.

"Stop!" Jaskier called. Ciri echoed him.

And the sounds did stop. All of them. Including the sounds of voices nearby.

"They didn't hear us, did they?" Ciri asked quietly.

"No, darling, I don't think they did."

* * *

At first Geralt thought he was hearing things. That his senses, after hours of trying to suppress the panic clawing at the back of his throat, had decided to play tricks on him by offering the sounds he most wanted to hear: Jaskier's and Ciri's voices.

Only…he gazed in the direction the sound seemed to be coming from, and saw a group of men digging in one section of the rubble. Saw one of them nearly fall when the pile shifted alarmingly, their digging destabilizing the balance of it.

And right as he saw that, he heard their voices shift from calling for help to yelling at the diggers to stop.

That seemed too plausible for a hallucination.

Making his way over, heart in his throat, Geralt surveyed the debris, trying to figure out where he could start digging that wouldn't cause further collapse.

“Wait!” One of the men who’d just abandoned digging in that area came scrambling back over. “Witcher, wait, that area’s not stable. If there’s anyone still alive under there, shifting the debris could finish them off.”

“I know that,” Geralt growled. “But my -” _family_ “- companions are under there. I heard their voices. With as much rubble as there is piled here, I doubt they’re getting any air. I can’t wait. There’s no time. So either help me figure out how to get into there without causing another collapse, or leave me be while I figure it out myself, but -”

The man reached out and caught Geralt’s wrist, staring at him with a refreshing lack of fear that reminded him painfully of Jaskier even when he instinctively snarled and yanked away. “All right, witcher. We’ll help.” His voice softened. “My sister is one of the survivors we dug out of one of the other buildings earlier. I understand. We’ll help you. All right?”

Dumbfounded, Geralt nodded and watched as the man jogged off to round up more hands to help. Had Jaskier’s songs, his efforts to rehabilitate not only Geralt’s reputation but the overall reputation of witchers as a whole, really done so much that a stranger would look at him and extend that kind of compassion? That kind of understanding? That the man would take Geralt’s worry over Jaskier and Ciri as seriously as his own fear for his sister?

Perhaps they had, for the man returned scant minutes later with half a dozen others in tow. “What are we looking for, witcher?” the man asked. “How many folk?”

Geralt stared for a second longer before finding his voice. “Two. A man, and a girl of twelve - the bard and his daughter.” They’d been using that as their cover, since it invited less comment than explaining the whole law of surprise fiasco; walnut dye had darkened her pale hair to a shade close to Jaskier’s, and the vivid sky-blue of Jaskier’s eyes made Ciri’s viridescent green seem like a natural variation.

A determined cast came over the man’s face, and several of his compatriots’ as well, at the mention of a child trapped in the ruin. “Then let’s get to work. If we start a little further over this way, we can dig down and then go sideways toward where you say you heard them, shoring things up as we go to minimize the risk of collapse.”

_Just a little longer,_ Geralt thought as they set to work, wishing Jaskier could hear him somehow. _I’m almost to you. Just hold on a little longer, please._

* * *

“Jaskier?”

“Hmm?” He almost laughed at how like Geralt he sounded, especially with his throat abraded by the mortar dust he’d inhaled.

“I don’t feel good.”

Jaskier firmly punched down his impulse to say something snarky in reply, like perhaps ‘what do you mean you aren’t enjoying being buried alive?’ Instead he said, “What’s wrong?”

“Head hurts,” she said. “And I feel like I can’t breathe.”

Fuck. Their air was beginning to run out. Well, he thought muzzily, at least once we pass out it’s a peaceful death from there. Out loud he simply said, “I’m sorry, darling. I wish there was something I could do to help you feel better.”

She was quiet for a moment. “We’re going to die down here, aren’t we?”

Jaskier was too tired to keep up the pretense. “I think maybe we are. I’m sorry. I really did think…”

“Jaskier?”

“Yes?”

“Would you…would you sing to me?”

He’d refused the first time for fear of using up their air. But if it was nearly gone anyway, and these were to be his final moments…why not go out singing? Die as he had lived. And it might comfort Ciri, too, here at the end.

“What would you like to hear, darling?”

“I don’t know. Something happy.”

Jaskier thought for a moment, and then remembered a ballad he wrote years ago that never really got much traction. Probably because it was a departure from his usual heroic tales of the White Wolf’s adventures. But he’d privately thought it was one of his better works, a lilting melody and lyrics calling to mind the simple pleasures of loyal companionship throughout the stages of one’s life.

It wasn’t about Geralt, at least not so far as anyone else could tell, but when he sang of summer sun warming a flower-strewn meadow while lying beside your beloved, it was with the memory of an afternoon when he’d convinced Geralt to just...stop and rest for a little while. The witcher had spent most of the time doing various things with his gear, but the silence had been companionable and when he’d craned his neck back to catch Geralt’s eye in the middle of an attempt to convince him to join Jaskier in finding shapes in the clouds, he’d gotten the briefest glimpse of an unbearably soft look in those gold eyes aimed right at him.

And in the next verse when he sang of the youthful fun of childhood friends getting into and then out of mischief together, he wasn’t thinking of his own boyhood in Lettenhove but of various times when his habit of loving recklessly and without regard for other people’s marital statuses had gotten him into scrapes that Geralt had then helped him get back out of.

If he wanted to be really on the nose with regards to his reputation, he’d go out singing _Toss a Coin_ , but this felt better. More...real, more true somehow.

So Jaskier gathered in what scant air he could and began to sing. His voice was harsh and kept breaking, he was only holding a tune by the loosest possible definition of the word, but it felt good. It felt right.

He reached out with the hand that wasn’t pinned by debris and found Ciri’s hand, clasping it with all the strength he had left, and sang until darkness found him.

* * *

Geralt recognized the song.

It was one he hadn’t heard in years - an odd misfit in Jaskier’s portfolio, but he’d always liked it. It was bittersweet, for him, speaking of a kind of companionship he was never meant to have, but Jaskier made it achingly beautiful nonetheless.

Distracted by the song, and his memories of the man singing it, it took Geralt a long moment to realize what it meant for him to be hearing it now, like this.

“Jan!” he roared, having finally asked the man who’d approached him earlier for his name. “I can hear them - there!” He pointed to a spot angled about twenty, perhaps twenty-five degrees off from the direction they’d been tunneling. If they’d kept going as they were, they’d have missed Jaskier and Ciri completely.

But the specific direction, and knowing they were digging for survivors rather than bodies, seemed to bolster everyone. In an instant they’d reoriented themselves and were moving toward Jaskier’s voice, cracked and fading but still singing, still singing. Geralt was expending every last drop of the enhanced strength and stamina his mutations had granted him, actually grateful for what he’d been made into for probably the first time in his hundred years of life. Soon the entire team of men around him were focused solely on shoring up debris and making it safe for him to tear away chunks of stone and plaster and wood that were directly in their path, since he could lift and move things that would take two or three of them to handle.

And then the singing stopped.

Geralt froze for an instant, then burst forward in a near-frenzy of motion, ignoring Jan’s calls to slow down and be careful. There was no more time for care, didn’t he realize that? What good was it to carefully retrieve their intact bodies? His heart pounded almost human-fast and he was breathing in searing lungfuls of plaster dust kicked up by his intemperate movements, but none of that mattered, none of it but that Jaskier and Ciri were close, and Jaskier had stopped singing, and…

He dragged a chunk of stone away that was nearly too big even for him, feeling as though his very muscles would tear with the effort, and revealed a pocket of space under layers of rubble. A slab of heavy wooden flooring from the upstairs had fallen with one end propped up on the sturdy bulk of the tavern’s bartop, leaving a triangle of empty space beneath where it leaned. Part of the stone outer wall had fallen on top of that and it had splintered, pressing down onto Jaskier, but Ciri, curled right against the base of the bar, looked to be nearly untouched.

The rubble above them creaked alarmingly. Geralt dropped down and crawled beneath the precariously leaning slab until he could reach Ciri. He pulled her toward him, picked her up, and handed her out to the waiting hands of Jan and the others before turning back to Jaskier.

Three problems immediately made themselves clear. First, a chunk of stone had sheared off a splinter of hardened wood that had been driven into the back of Jaskier’s knee, pinning him and making it dangerous to move the affected joint lest it cause further damage. Second, in peering past Jaskier’s unconscious form Geralt could see his arm outflung above his head and pinned under a chunk of stone laying across his forearm. And third, and worst of all, Geralt had a sinking feeling that Jaskier’s own body was a load-bearing part of this sheltered little space, meaning that moving him could see the whole load of stone and wood dropping straight down onto him.

One thing at a time, Geralt told himself. Reaching for the hunting knife sheathed at the small of his back, he set about hacking through the wood splinter embedded in Jaskier’s knee. They could worry about removing it later; right now, he just needed it small and manageable enough to be moved.

Next, the stone across his arm. Geralt had to squeeze himself into the farthest recesses of the space to reach it, then try to shift the weight of the stone enough to be able to ease Jaskier’s arm out from under it without shifting things dangerously far and risking triggering another collapse. He bit his lip at the dark bruising across Jaskier’s arm, reminding himself that there were healers who could help him, if only Geralt could get him out of here.

Arm freed; leg freed. That just left the most dangerous part: pulling him out without destabilizing everything around them.

“Witcher!” It was Jan, crouched by the entrance Geralt had made to get into there. “I don’t mean to rush you, but time may be a bit of a factor. I don’t like the sounds I keep hearing from the pile above you.”

“I know,” Geralt snapped. “Part of it is resting on him, and I’m worried that when I move him it’ll bring the rest of it down.”

Jan was quiet for a moment. “What if I pass you a few pieces to brace it with, to either side of him? Might at least buy you a few seconds once you move him.”

It was a good idea. “Yes,” he called back over his shoulder. Mere seconds later there was a tap against his calf. He twisted awkwardly and reached back to grasp several short lengths of wood, which he jammed under the broken slab above Jaskier’s head and below his feet. He found himself praying to all the gods he didn’t believe in that it would be enough to hold things up and buy time to get them both out.

There was a particularly terrifying creak above their heads. No more time to prepare. Taking a deep breath, Geralt gripped Jaskier at shoulder and hip and pulled him away from the debris, into the clear spot where Ciri had lain. As soon as Jaskier was clear of the rubble Geralt rolled them so that he was braced over Jaskier, one arm folded across the bard’s back to hold him against his chest and the other working to propel them backwards in an awkward, shuffling sort of crawl.

“I have to say,” he muttered against Jaskier’s hair, “this is not exactly how I imagined winding up in this sort of position with you.”

The rubble creaked, rumbled - shifted. But there were hands grabbing at their legs now, helping pull them backward faster than Geralt could’ve managed alone, and even as the whole mess began to move with a terrible grinding, scraping sound, they emerged into the tiny clear space the men had created, shored up and reinforced and safe, as much as anything could be in this mess.

Geralt pushed himself up onto his knees, shifted Jaskier’s weight and stood up, scooping up the bard’s legs with an arm behind his thighs. Blinking, eyes watering in the bright midday light, he turned and carried Jaskier out of the ruins to safety.

* * *

Jaskier’s first thought, upon waking, was to wonder what kind of shithole afterlife his spirit had wound up in. He was pretty sure the better afterlives would at least have nicer beds than the straw-filled pallet he was laying on.

But the afterlife theory shattered a moment later when a familiar face entered his field of vision, leaning over him with a worried crease between his eyes.

“Geralt?” he croaked at the same moment that Geralt whispered, “Jaskier?”

Jaskier might have laughed, except that even that one word had left him struggling to breathe and tasting blood in the back of his throat. He winced, and a moment later there was a cup of water against his lips and Geralt’s arm under his head, tipping him up enough to drink without choking on it. It was wonderfully cool and soothing going down, tasting faintly of herbs, and he drank until Geralt pulled the cup away. Jaskier made a sound of protest.

“You can have more in a little bit,” Geralt said as he laid Jaskier’s head back down.

Jaskier licked his lips. “Ciri?” he managed to ask.

“She’s fine,” Geralt assured him. “Better than you, in fact. Twisted an ankle and had a headache from oxygen deprivation, but that’s all.”

He barely heard a single word past the initial ‘she’s fine’, slumping with relief. All three of them had survived. That was all that mattered. Everything else could be dealt with later.

* * *

Jaskier woke again some indeterminate amount of time later, feeling much less like a giant bruise with lungs full of dirt and more like an actual human being. It was dark, the dim glow of a banked fire at the far end of the room the only light, and he could feel a heavily-bandaged hand clasped in his.

Carefully he turned his head and found Geralt about where he’d expected to: slumped on the floor beside the pallet as though he hadn’t wanted to crowd Jaskier on the mattress, the idiot, but with that hand grasping his tightly even in sleep, as though he couldn’t bear to let go.

He fell back asleep smiling a little.

* * *

The third time he woke it was to sunlight and the sounds of voices, Ciri’s piping soprano interspersed with Geralt’s rumbling baritone.

But Geralt must have heard the change in his breathing as he woke, for Jaskier didn’t even have a chance to do more than blink a few times before the both of them were leaning over him, one from each side of the bed. It might've been a little overwhelming if not for how reassuring it was to see them both alive and hale.

"Jaskier?" Ciri sounded cautious, maybe even worried. "Are you all right? How do you feel?"

"Well enough," he said easily, ignoring the ache in his ribs and the pain in his knee. She didn't need to hear about all that. Geralt was giving him that look that meant he wasn't fooled in the slightest, so Jaskier continued without giving him a chance to interject. "What happened? Last I remember was singing and then everything went dark."

Ciri looked over him at Geralt with a soft smile. "You were right, Jaskier. He came for us just like you said."

Jaskier gave her a cheeky grin. "See? I told you he would."

Ciri just rolled her eyes. "Yes, yes, you're the wisest bard in the history of ever, we _know."_

Geralt snorted. Jaskier tried to suppress a laugh, but it only made his back and ribs seize up and he flinched, despite his best efforts not to.

The witcher's gaze turned keen and assessing for a moment. He turned back to Ciri. "Ciri, do you think you could go downstairs and see about finding Jaskier something simple and easy to eat? And let the healer know he's awake."

She wasn't fooled for a second, green eyes flicking between them, but she nodded anyway. "All right," was all she said. "I'll be back."

There was silence for a long moment after the door closed behind her. At last Geralt spoke, an odd look in his gold eyes as he regarded Jaskier.

"You told her I would rescue you?"

Jaskier nodded. "I did. Because I knew you would."

Geralt looked away with a low, pained sound. "You put too much faith in me," he rasped, hand tightening on the blanket at Jaskier's side even as his injured palm throbbed. "I almost didn't make it in time. Another minute or two and you both would have died."

Gently Jaskier pried Geralt's fingers back. He brought his hand up to his lips and pressed a gentle kiss over the bloody bandages.

"And yet," he whispered, "here we are. Isn't that all that really matters?" He looked up at the man he'd been in love with for most of his life, willing him to understand his meaning this time.

They stared at each other, tension twisting in the air between them, rippling with the weight of decades' worth of unspoken things.

And suddenly Geralt was _there_ , bandaged hands cradling Jaskier's bruised face, kissing him breathless. Jaskier melted into it, pressed closer, until a quiet sound from the doorway caught their attention and they broke apart, feeling obscurely caught.

Ciri grinned at them both. "Gross," she said.


End file.
